A symphony dies to be sung
There's music welling up in wonder--
No job for chords or fingers wrung
Fit just to play the tunes of blunder.
Excitement is killed by remorse,
Outbidding passion's claim on love
But still, disrupting this divorce,
The music ripples from above.
It is a music never sung,
Of far-off words remaining mute,
Resounding truer now, when hung,
Than in the days they've taken root.
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